Chapter 1:- Prologue

According to the Moms, my name is Liar.

Liar, liar, pants on fire...

Botox Mom always said I was the best liar she knew. One day she told me, "Bliss Morgan, you are born a liar. Everyone can see it. It's stamped across your forehead."

I would stare at her, looking at her fake smile, bleached teeth, plastic forehead and fake boobs, all the while thinking, "You're the liar. There's not one honest thing about you."

...hanging on the telephone wire.

I used to stand in the bathroom in front of the mirror and stare at my forehead, waiting for that one word to appear.

LIAR.

Holy Mom said I couldn't tell the truth if my life depended on it. She said I'd lie to the devil if it got me what I wanted. I'm not sure she's wrong.

Every morning she'd make me say a prayer asking God to forgive the lies I'd tell that day. At night she'd tell me to have a bath to wash my sinful deceptions away. Sometimes I'd lock the door and just run the bath water, watching it run down the drain. I guess you could call that another lie. It’s a good thing Holy Mom was Pentecostal and not Catholic, or I’d be in confession for a long, long time.

Then there was Rich Mom. She used to send me to my room when I lied. I lied a lot in that house―on purpose. My bedroom was the only place I could be me. Plus it was kind of cool.

I had the last room down the hall. It was gigantic. There was a canopy bed with purple fabric draped down the sides. Across from the bed was a dresser with nine drawers.

I only ever needed three.

In the corner by the window was a built-in bookcase that held beautiful porcelain dolls with flowing curls and fancy dresses.

I wasn't allowed to touch the dolls.

"Look, but don't touch," Rich Mom would say. As if looking was all that fun.

Sometimes she'd stare at the dolls for a long time. Then she'd squint in my direction. "Bliss, did you move my babies?"

That's what she called them. Her babies. Like they were real or something.

"No, ma'am," I'd say. "I never moved 'em."

Stroking them isn’t the same as moving them.

Lies are all I know. They are my bedtime stories, my excuses, my comfort. Lies cloak me with safety. Nothing is real except what I create, and I'll do anything to create a better world than the one I'm stuck in. Even lie.

Because the truth in my world is dark, messy and ugly, like a scab you pick over and over again until it gets infected.

The truth is, only two people ever loved me. But they hate me now, probably wish I was dead.

I almost am. Soon.

I can't help but think of Real Mom. Her name is Carolyn. She's married to Real Dad―George. I call them ‘Real’ because they’re the only people who were ever really honest with me, and because if I could’ve picked my parents, I would’ve chosen them hands down.

Carolyn's the most beautiful person I know.

I wish I'd told her that. I wish I'd told her a lot of things. But I was so lost. There’s nothing worse than losing yourself.

I'm still lost.

Real Mom always said, "Sometimes you have to lose yourself completely before you can find yourself.”

I don’t quite understand what she meant by that.

Then again, the Moms always said I was a slow learner, on top of being a liar. Botox Mom said I’d learn the hard way. Holy Mom said I’d learn once I gave myself to Jesus. Rich Mom said I’d learn after sessions with her shrink.

Before I go much further, I should explain something. I'm a Foster. That's not my last name. My birth mother, The Womb, couldn't take care of me properly so they took me away. I was glad at first―until I was handed over to the Fosters.

I've had eight sets of Fosters. Sixteen people pretending to be my mom and dad. Some with their own kids. All with their own problems.

I was always the outsider, the one to pity. Or blame. And I was blamed for everything.

Like killing someone.

I’ll get to that later.

The Fosters all thought they were experts at parenting. They thought they could fix me, make me into a smaller version of one of them. Except for Carolyn and George. They said I’d have to work at fixing me myself.

I learned something from having so many moms, and from looking at The Womb and everything she did to me. Giving birth doesn't make a woman a mother. Motherhood is so much more than that.

Then again, what do I really know? The Womb pimped me out to her boyfriends in exchange for drugs. She never once told me she loved me. And I’ve never told anyone I love them.

Some people wait their whole life to be loved.

I’m still waiting.

I suppose I should start at the beginning. Then maybe you'll understand why I did what I did. Of course, I'll have to tell you the truth, no lies. I'll do my best.

So here goes. The story of Bliss. Or the story of how I found myself.

Who am I really?

My name is Bliss Morgan, also known as Bastard Child, Troublemaker, Brat, Foster Kid, Tattletale, Bitch, Slut, Promiscu-us―however you spell that―and above all...

LIAR.

Don’t forget that.

Read Chapter 2 now.

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For more information on Finding Bliss, please visit:
http://www.findingblissbook.com

You can also follow Bliss on Twitter. She has her own account.
http://www.twitter.com/findingbliss

My official website:
http://www.cherylktardif.com